Always
by icelantis
Summary: Agent Taryn Steele, "The Spectre", is a telepath with a broken past, recruited from the streets to S.H.I.E.L.D. by Peggy Carter. While on a mission in Moskow, she runs into the Winter Soldier, who is desperate and on the run, determined to escape Hydra forever. It started as friendship... The Avengers Initiative is S.H.I.E.L.D's latest terrible idea, but Phil Coulson has hope...
1. Chapter 1

_**June 6, 1954, Moskow, Soviet Union**_

Taryn, still smiling, paused at the door to the penthouse. Bucky laughingly called after her.

"Make sure you don't get yourself killed." he joked.

They had been holed up in Moskow for close to a year now. They both knew their chances of defecting from the Soviet Union undetected were slim, so had been biding their time, planning each careful step of their plans slowly and deliberately. The Winter Soldier, not to mention the Spectre, was such a high-profile character, especially now that the KGB were aware of him, that the pair were paranoidly cautious, never meeting a contact in the same place, never using an apartment for more than a month, avoiding being seen together as often as possible. Taryn just hoped that when they got back to SHIELD, Peggy would make her an endless level agent.

Make sure you don't get killed. It was a semi-serious joke between the two. She turned back to face him, her quirked smile on her face.

"I will. Just promise to remember me when I get back."

"Deal." Bucky chuckled, turning back and disappearing into his half of the apartment.

Taryn gave a low laugh, then stepped outside. She, carefully casual, locked the front door behind her, and set of. It was the last day of their long wait. She was going to visit a longtime friend of hers to procure two seats in the baggage area of a diplomatic plane bound for London. Not that the delay had been all bad.

It had started last winter, when she came across a feverish, starving man with a metal arm in an abandoned warehouse during her mission in Moskow, where they had been forced to hide until her pursuers left the city. During that time, of course she tended to him, using her mind's unique abilities to heal his bodily ailments. In his most lucid moments, he would ramble about New York, a war, and a shrimpy friend named Steve Rogers. But there were darker times in that month, where he would rave about trains, snow, and an unstoppable force, whose greatest weapon was he. All-in-all, by the end of that seclusion, Taryn had decided to help him defect, despite his now healthy refusals of assistance. Contact with SHIELD had been unfortunately cut off, but Taryn was fairly confident in her many resources to get them out.

And her efforts seemed to be paying off. Fake ID, passports, and visas had been obtained, so the last puzzle piece, transportation, was ready to fall into place.

Taryn swiftly ducked into the alleyway, and hurried down the narrow passage to the back entrance of an unobtrusive establishment. She knocked the rusted knocker once, softly, and waited. The door creaked softly open, but only revealed darkness. Taryn tensed, frowning.

The door suddenly flung wide open, men in uniforms pouring out, and Taryn's world went black.

When she came to herself, her first sensation was that of an awful headache.

"Come on, Taryn. Wake up. Please wake up."

Taryn furrowed her brow. The voice was Bucky's, as were the hands, one metal, one gloved, that cradled her face.

"Please, Taryn."

He sounded worried. Was he worried about her? She decided to let him know she was alright. But all that came out of her mouth was a groan.

Bucky gave an audible sigh of relief, shakily puling her into an embrace. Taryn froze at this unucustomed touch, then relaxed.

"Oh, Taryn. Oh, _Taryn._ " There were traces of unshed tears in his voice. Taryn blinked a few times, her vision clearing. Bucky held her at arms length, his face sheepish, then exasperated.

"You little _psikh_!" he said, almost gently shaking her, but deciding against it. "You promised me you wouldn't get killed."

Taryn slowly, with Bucky's help, sat up.

"Well, I'm not." she quipped. Her headache was steadily wearing away, and she glanced about her. "Where are we?"

"In the back of a truck." Bucky explained, the vehicle itself suddenly rumbling over something, causing them to bounce a few inches into the air. Bucky grimaced, then sobered. "But you're avoiding the point. don't ever do that again. When they dragged you through the door yesterday-" He set his lips, and ran a hand through his hair.

Taryn paled. "You mean you were captured because I-" her eyes filled with tears. "My fault." she whispered, backing away from him.

Bucky moved over to her, and halted her retreat, draping his metal arm over her shoulders.

"Hey." he said, wiping her cheeks with his right hand. "It's not your fault. I chose this. They would have killed you. Right in front of me." He rested his chin on her head, holding her closer. "I couldn't let that happen. Not now, not ever."

Taryn drew a shuddering breath, clasping her hands in her lap. Bucky covered them with his gloved hand.

Taryn suddenly shook her head. "What am I thinking?" She surveyed her darkened surroundings. "Let me just break the door down."

"Woahuh, slow down." said Bucky. He clanked a metal finger on a metal collar around her neck. Taryn started, felling its weight for the first time.

"Don't even think about using your mind to break us out of here. This thing," he tapped the collar again, "would kill you before you could disintegrate a single bolt."

Taryn fell back into his arms, a wave of despair threatening to overwhelm her. Bucky clasped her hands tighter.

"We'll make it out of here, it will be alright." His words, though hopeful, did nothing to asuage the pain of the inevitable. They sat in weary silence.

"Is it KGB or Hydra?" She queried at last.

"KGB." He said definitely. "If it was Hydra, we'd both be monsters by now."

The awful, shaking dread of his voice drove her to grasp his gloved hand in both of her cold hands. He rested his head on hers.

The back of the truck slid forcibly open. Bucky and Taryn shielded their eyes from the blinding light. A silhouette stepped into their shrinking view, then climbed into the truck.

"Before you resist, Sergeant Barnes," The man's thick Russian voice said. "Please remember that any violence on your part will result in this girl's death." he gestured to Taryn, who fingered the collar around her neck, and bit her lip.

Standing, Bucky nodded grimly, offering a hand to Taryn, who gritted her teeth and taking it, stood.

"Please follow me." The Russian turned, and stepped outside.

Bucky tightened his grip on Taryn's small hand, helping her exit the vehicle. They turned to face a group of a dozen suited men standing in the snow, half of whom had the red and black symbol of Hydra, the other six an odd "a"-like symbol.

Bucky stiffened, and dropped Taryn's nerveless hand. The six men of Hydra looked him over approvingly. Their leader turned to the Russian.

"And he will come willingly?"

Bucky's eyes darkened, his fists clenched. "I will not go back. Not to you." He snarled, eyes glittering dangerously. The twelve men backpedalled hastily; the Russian, however, calmly took a small object out of his pocket, and pressed a button.

Taryn, shivering somewhat in the cold, suddenly felt an overwhelming electric shock course through her body, emitting from the collar at her neck. She clenched her jaw, stifling her cry of pain, but could not stop her body from tremoring, nor her face from drastically paling.

Bucky turned to her, aghast.

"Taryn." he whispered. He caught her, held her upright as she wavered.

Taryn struggled to focus. "Don't go." she managed at last, in a deathly whisper. "Don't let them take you."

Bucky's face set. "I can't. They'll kill you."

Taryn shook her head. "Doesn't matter-" but her voice was cut off by a strangled scream, as another shock of burning energy coursed through her. Her head slumped against his chest, her breathing shallow.

Bucky wildly cast his eye to the Russian, whose finger hovered over the button, ready to deliver the final blow.

"Stop!" he cried, heartbroken. He locked eyes with the Russian. "If I go willingly, will you free her?"

The Russian smiled. "Of course."

Bucky contemptuously held his gaze. "I'll go. Just let me say goodbye, privately."

The Russian nodded, still smiling. "Of course. Just remember," his voice turned sinister. "If you make one move to the collar-" he unobtrusively brandished the device.

Bucky nodded absently, barely noticing when the group bustled away to conclude a price for his capture.

"Taryn?" he gently tapped her cheek. He sank to the ground, where they both knelt. She gazed up at him, remorse in her eyes.

"They won't keep their promise." she murmured urgently. "They're lying." Her eyes threatened to spill over with tears.

"Hey, hey." Bucky soothed, smoothing her hair gently back. "I know that already. Just make sure you don't get killed, okay?" His eyes filled.

Taryn nodded brokenly. "Just promise to remember me." Tears welled onto her cheeks.

Bucky nodded, but Taryn clutched his hand. "Promise." her voice was terrifyingly urgent.

"Promise you will always remember me."

A fire burning in his gaze, Bucky looked deeply into her eyes. "I promise." he said passionately. "No matter hat they do to me, no matter who I am, I will always remember you." He drew her close, crushed her to him. Tenderly, he kissed her forehead. "Taryn, look at me." he pleaded gently.

The men were crowding back now, surrounding them. Taryn met Bucky's passionate gaze with her own. The men tore them apart, pulled him away from her, bur their gaze remained locked.

Always.

They pushed him into the auto, his head disappearing from view.

Taryn wept.

 _The Russian turned to the six remaining men, as the Hydra's automobile drove away. He gestured to the girl kneeling on the ground._

 _"Does Aperature agree to my terms?" he sneered. "Technopaths are not simple to come by."_

 _The head man nodded, reaching into his pocket. Removing a wad of American dollars, he handed them over. Two of his men, gingerly bending over, picked up the prostrate girl and bore her to their vehicle._


	2. Chapter 2

_**Eight years before present day, New York**_

"Alright," Tony Stark's angry voice reverberated out of the hole in the wall, "Fine then, _Gramps_ , be dissed."

Steve Rogers froze, halting his retreat. Unconsciously, his hands clenched at his sides, his left gripping the shield tighter, bloodied knuckles white.

Tony Stark had just made the idiotic presumption of trying to house the Avengers in his Stark Tower. The atmosphere of the shawarma joint had been peaceful till then, an air of almost camaraderie prevailing amongst them. Then Tony had dropped the bombshell, as the last servings of shawarma had been pushed away.

"Well, let's go." he said, standing stiffly. Nat had eyed him suspiciously.

"Where to?" she inquired.

"The tower." Stark's voice, and face had remained impassive, as though this was the most logical solution in the world.

Nat shared a look with Clint, then shrugged. Banner was already stiffly rising, Thor had sprung to his feet. Steve, on the other hand, remained seated. The voices of the others rose and fell, yet he could only make out parts of their conversation. The pain in his side, where he remembered being hit with an alien blaster, had intensified from a dull ache to a searing, scorching torture. His vision was steadily blurring, probably due to his pounding headache, and greying at the fringes. His chest was constricting, making it hard to breathe. It felt like…..

Drowning.

Steve could suddenly see the white expanse of an endless sheet of ice rising to meet him. His frenzied gaze glanced to his left, falling on his compass, rattling and shaking on the Valkyrie's dashboard. In the lid, he saw Peggy's face.

Then his world crashed.

Cold.

He was so cold.

The water rushed, filling every corner of him with chilling, icy cold. The sound of rending, searing metal could be heard, the only sound that filled his straining ears, and then-

Silence.

Cold, dark silence.

The silence, the darkness, was suddenly broken by a face, a voice.

Steve squinted. It was Howard. He knew Howard. Howard knew Peggy.

Peggy.

He gestured groggily. "J's'secon', Howard."

The face above him suddenly darkened.

"I am _not_ Howard." it hissed. "Don't ever call me that. _Ever_."

Tony had just noticed that Cap wasn't standing, wasn't joining them. In fact, he seemed to be staring moodily out into the street, his hand pressed to his side. Tony turned, and made his way towards him, a nagging doubt in his mind insistently telling him that Captain America would never agree, never condescend to spend a single night under his roof; but he resolutely pushed it away. He leaned on the table.

"Hey, Capsicle. You coming with us, or is Captain America to high and mighty to mingle with the low people?" his tone was purposefully light, teasing.

Cap turned his disapproving eyes to Stark, blinking in what Tony perceived as derision.

"Just a'second." he drawled, " _Howard_." The last word was cuttingly emphasised.

Tony bit his lip, all the negative, pent up memories of his absent father stirring in his mind. His eyes flashed, but Captain America still stared blatantly back.

"I am _not_ Howard." Tony hissed through his clenched teeth. "Don't ever call me that. _Ever._ "

Steve was suddenly jolted back into reality. Howard no longer stood in front of him, His friend was replaced by an unfamiliar, a hostile gaze. He cast his eye about him, wildly searching for a familiar face, finding none. Everything, everything was unfamiliar. The strange man still looked angry. Steve struggled to his feet, his vision wavering. He steadied himself on the table, and he remembered.

Howard was dead.

Dead.

Everyone he knew was gone.

Because he was in the future.

A future without Peggy.

His hands were shaking. "I'm sorry, Stark." he said, his voice almost cracking. "Won't call you—that." he grabbed his shield from where it lay, turning to go.

Tony, still broiling with compounded rage and disappointment, spoke after him. "Fine then, Gramps, be dissed."

Steve paused, knuckles white, his mind whirling. Always he was Captain America. Cap this. Cap that.

Capsicle.

Cap on ice. Steve shivered. Seventy years. Just a month ago, Peggy had promised him a dance. He had promised to be there. To her, to Howard, (to Bucky) he had been Steve.

And now she was dead.

Steve slowly turned, his face deathly white.

"You know?" His voice broke pitifully. "I never was a grandfather." he disappeared out the smashed door.

Tony angrily watched him go, fury still plainly written on his forehead. Suddenly, however, Natasha gasped, and cursed in Russian. Turning, Tony saw the cause of her distress.

On the table, where Steve had braced himself, was a handprint, glistening redly.

Blood.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Present Day**_

Tony Stark, for once in his life, walked unassisted away from a party. This phenomenon occurred not because of a lack of alcoholic beverages, for there were many of great variety, but because of an unexplainable urge to stay sober, the need to be fully cognizant. Tony had impulsively obeyed this urge, and was now able to easily enter his car as a result.

He settled into the backseat, letting Jarvis take the wheel.

"Any news, J?" he queried.

"Sir, you have 3,123 unread emails, 50 instant messages, and 513 voice messages." Jarvis automated voice reverberated through the car. "Also, one '*expletive deleted* you, Stark, it's urgent.' message."

Tony ignored Jarvis' correction of his language, pricking up his ears instead. Only the Avengers had access to this reserved slot in his messages.

"Play it, J." he said eagerly. Maybe Cap-

Stark had been expecting many things, but a woman's tearfilled voice had not been one of them.

" _Tony_."

Stark started. It was Taryn. Taryn whom he hadn't seen or heard from since Sokovia. Taryn who had only ever called him Stark, or Dr. Stark, if she was in a good mood. And her voice—but Taryn never cried. Ever. It was unthinkable.

There were several seconds of labored breathing on he recording before the woman recovered herself.

" _Please pick up. Please._ " she whispered. Tony frantically searched his pockets, desperately trying to answer her.

" _Alright_." the woman's voice broke. " _I'm at the Tower. Please, I need to see somebody, or—I don't know what I'll do._ " The woman paused, and Tony froze. What was Taryn implying? Was she trying to say she would—

" _Just_..." her voice trailed off. Tony's heartbeat escalated, his mind whirling. He knew Taryn. He _knew_ he knew Taryn. And tarn would never—

" _Goodbye, Tony._ " She whispered brokenly.

The message ended, leaving Stark immobile, and terrified.

"Jarvis."he said at last, desperate. "When was tis message received?" Surely, if all she needed was human interactment, he would be in time to talk to her. Please let it be just now.

"Five minutes ago." the AI responded. Tony's mind spun. Five minutes.

"Sir, I have rerouted your destination, we are almost to Avengers Tower."

Tony settled stiffly in his chair, a small part of his mind flinching at the name, but drowned out by his far more severe worry. He would get there in time, give her a high-five, everything would be okay. Taryn would be fine, they would all be fine, everyone would be happy and alive. There was nothing to worry about, nothing in the slightest.

When the car pulled up in front of the Avengers Tower, Stark rocketed out before it even slowed down. Racing madly to the door, he flung it open and sprang inside, bowling over whomever was in his way. Knocking people aside, he dashed up to the elevator.

He couldn't be late, he couldn't be late.

He punched the up button with stattico ferocity, then spoke into his watch.

"Jarvis, override elevator controls, I need that lift _now_!"

There was a violent creaking, and the elevator doors opened to reveal a group of seasick and confused business people. Stark stormed in, and unceromoniously shoved them out, the door slamming shut behind them.

"Jarvis, Avengers communal floor." the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he was shoved to the floor by enourmous pressure.

He couldn't be late.

Faster than he thought possible, yet slower then he feverishly desired,the elevator abruptly stopped, and the door opened. Tony staggered out, casting a wild eye about him, desperately wishing to see Taryn there laughing at his incongruous exit. But he did not. He sprinted past the kitchen, towards the rec room. Stumbling in, he saw her. She was on the floor beside the couch, still and silent. Her ghostly face was tinged blue.

Tony swore. Covering the little distance between them, he dropped to his knees beside her.

"Vitals, Jarvis." he barked. He was too *expletive deleted* late.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Present Day**_

Steve Rogers wiped his sweaty forehead with his hand, reflecting that jogging in New York had never been this uncomfortably hot.

His pocket buzzed, and he stiffened, reaching for the phone it held. The Phone. He didn't have any other, didn't need one. Only one person had The Phone's number.

Tony Stark.

Steve's hand hesitated, his mind flitting through the various possibilities that would induce such a call. He shook his head, and answered.

The string of words which, by their tone, Steve guessed was profanity, though the speaker was nearly indecipherable, banished all thought of a repentant, or instead magnanimously forgiving Tony. Steve tried desperately to catch his drift amidst the curses, but finally gave up.

"Stark, why are you calling?"

"Why am I calling? 'Why am I calling?' he asks." Tony's voice had jumped octaves, a sure sign of mental distress. "I don't know why I call you, maybe because Taryn coded in the ambulance, and when she finally got herself together enough to start living again, all she could do was plead with your metal-armed-"

Tony was very imaginative, and began to describe Bucky in terms that Steve had not previously known could be used for that purpose. After his first paragraph, Steve finally succeeded in interrupting him.

"Tony, What is going on?"

Tony—was he cackling? There was a brief scuffle on the other end of the line, and a loud thud. Steve's heart rate quickened as a woman came on the phone.

"Captain Rogers, this is Dr. Cho." Steve relaxed at her familiar voice. "I have sedated Mr. Stark, as he was disturbing the patient."

"How is she?" he queried.

"Physically, she's now stable." the doctor paused.

"What happened?" Steve questioned, desperately confused.

There was silence.

"Captain Rogers." The woman said at last. "I don't claim to know much about Sergeant Barnes. I don't know much about your current situation with the Accords, barring current news." the doctor hesitated. "But I do know that Taryn's only hope of any form of mental recovery will only be the result of-"

"Mental recovery?" Steve rubbed his forehead. "Ma'am, I have no idea what you are talking about right now."

There was the rustling of paper on the other side. "This is the official report, as filed by Mr. Stark." the woman began reading, Steve listening intently.

"So you're saying," he broke in at last. "that Taryn was unconscious when Tony found her, coded in the ambulance, but you now have her stabilized? And you think she tried to kill herself?"

"That is correct." the doctor corroborated.

"Taryn wouldn't do that." Steve answered bluntly, looking up to find himself outside of the apartment he shared with his fellow fugitive ex-Avengers, though now only Sam, Wanda and Natasha resided there now.

"I'm sorry, Steve." Helen said softly. "But there is really no denying the evidence. If I may show you the message she sent Stark."

Steve opened the door, and stepped inside. "Play it." he said brusquely, slamming the door closed.

" _Tony."_

Steve's heart froze. Taryn? He heard the message out, barely noticing the three other Avengers making their appearance. His ears rang. Taryn? But what could possibly make Taryn—cold, reserved, capable a thousand times over—sound so, so hopeless?

As soon as Taryn's voice faded, his numbed hand released the phone. It dropped dully on the rickety dining table. He stumbled back, turning his gaze from Wanda's concerned one. Natasha coolly picked up the phone, quickly bringing Sam and Wanda up to speed.

Steve dropped his head in his hands, the world spinning. Why would Taryn-?

"Steve." Natasha's business voice, though now with a hint of softness, broke through his daze. He lifted his head, spying Sam, with his dark arms crossed, staring moodily at the floor, and Wanda, seated soberly by Nat at the table.

Natasha put the phone on speaker. "Continue, Dr. Cho."

The doctor's voice sounded hollowly through the silent room. "As I was saying, her mental situation is precarious at best. She is not lucid, and she is almost violent when the seizures hit."

"Seizures?" asked Wanda.

"Yes. When she experiences one, our equipment malfunctions, and her breathing is cut off, almost as if she is still attempting to-"

Steve hurriedly broke in. "What would you say caused this breakdown?"

There was silence. At last, Dr. Cho spoke.

"To answer that, I'm afraid you must learn it from _her_." the doctor paused. "It won't be easy, Steve. Her ravings are very-" Helen swallowed. "Even under the guise of a professional-"

Sam spoke up, voice low. "We'll hear her."

Their answer was the soft hiss of an air-locked door opening, and the muffled sound of a frantic voice.

Taryn. The three around the table drew a breath.

The doctor evidently moved closer, as Taryn's voice grew louder, inarticulately crying out. Suddenly, her words became distinguishable.

"Please remember." she said breathlessly. " Please. Please. You promised."

Natasha's brow furrowed; Sam looked confused; but Wanda paled. Steve, looking at her, deigned that, perhaps, in Africa, had she looked into Taryn's mind? He thought to Tony's words.

"Please." Taryn's voice pleaded. "'Always'. Always, you said. No matter what." There was labored, quickening breath. Then Taryn cried out.

One name. One name only, yet it was more heartbreakingly enunciated than any of her other pleas.

"Bucky!" she screamed in agonizing sorrow.

The phone went dead.

The group was silent, shocked. Steve saw Natasha swipe her eyes, heard Sam curse, but Wanda remained stoic.

"What _was_ that?" Sam said gruffly.

"Seizure." said Natasha automatically. "Disturbed the phone frequency, disrupted the call."

"You know that's not what I asked."

Natasha ignored him, turning to Steve. "Dr. Cho suggested you bring Bucky to Taryn. I agree."

Steve nodded moodily, then sighed. He lifted his pained gaze to her. "But what if he _doesn't_ remember?" he whispered brokenly. He began pacing, his hands shoved in his pockets. "I looked through his notebooks. I was in it, Siberia was in it," he turned to Nat. "you were in it." He paused, the awful realization in his mind. Taryn was not there.

Wanda broke the stillness. "He will remember." she said softly. Steve turned to her.

"On the Churchill. What did you see?"

Wanda eyed the wall. "Taryn is a receptive person." She said contemplatively. "She feels other's emotions."

Sam sighed audibly. "What does that mean?"

Wanda fixed her eyes on him. "It means that what I am about to show you is not only what she saw and felt."

"Show us?" Steve questioned.

"You must take Barnes out of cryofreeze." she said passionately. "If you ever want him to be himself..." she trailed off. "I will show you." her eyes closed.

Steve felt suddenly cold. Looking about him, he saw that he was no longer in the apartment, but surrounded by snow, standing by a truck. Hearing voices, he cautiously made his way around the truck. He saw a group of a dozen men surrounding a man in a fur cap, a girl, and a man with a metal arm.

Bucky! He cried out, rushing forward, forgetful. Yet no one turned. No one noticed him. Recollecting himself, Steve edged forward. He could now see that the girl beside Bucky was Taryn, though she was so young, he hardly knew her. The leader of the dozen turned to the fur-capped man.

"And he will come willingly?" he asked, German accent thick.

Bucky turned savagely to them. "I will not go back." he hissed. "Not to you."

The German retreated, but the man in the fur cap calmly brought out a transceiver, and pressed a button.

Taryn convulsed, her face greying. Bucky turned quickly, catching her. Steve barely glimpsed the look on his face, and gasped. He barely made out Taryn's voice.

"Don't go." she whispered, shivering, deathly pale. "Don't let them take you."

Silently, Steve echoed her. Don't go, Buck. Don't make me lose you again.

Bucky's shoulders stiffened. "I have to. They'll kill you."

Taryn shook her head. "Doesn't matter-" a loud scream of pain reverberated from her chest. Bucky's wild gaze fell on the Russian with the fur cap, who prepared to press the device for the death-blow.

"Stop!" Bucky cried, broken. His gaze tore into the Russian. "If I go willingly, will you free her?"

No! Bucky! Steve's mind cried. Don't!

The Russian smiled silkily. "Of course."

Bucky held his gaze with contempt burning in his eyes. But Steve knew his friend was beaten. Bucky!

"I'll go." Bucky said, surrendering. "Just let me say goodbye, privately."

The Russian smiled wider, a sickening gesture. "Of course." his gaze turned sinister. "Just remember, if you make one move to the collar, I'll barbecue her."

The group of men filed behind the truck, passing through Steve, who stood frozen. Please, Buck.

Bucky, still supporting Taryn, sank to the snowy ground. The woman gazed up at him, stricken. "They won't keep their promise." she murmured urgently. "They're lying."

Steve saw Taryn's eyes well with tears, saw Bucky soothe her, gently pushing her hair back.

"I know that." Bucky said. "Just make sure you don't get yourself killed, okay?" his breath caught, his face was wet. Steve turned away.

"Just promise to remember me." she responded, submitting. Even in her sorrowful tone, Steve understood the familiarity of the two phrases, though no so soberly used.

"Promise." Taryn's voice was terrifyingly urgent. "Promise you will always remember me."

Steve heard Bucky's voice, low, passionate. "I promise. No matter who I am, no matter what they do to me, I will _always_ remember you."

Steve looked up, awed. He took an involuntary step forward as Bucky embraced Taryn, then back, shocked. He could tangibly feel the emotion surrounding them, the rushing surge of promise. Their fear, their despair, their love-

The men, led by the Russian, came back, passing through Steve. He stared numbly as Bucky and Taryn locked eyes, their gaze never leaving each other as they were roughly separated, drawn further apart.

The Bucky was shoved in a car, his head disappearing from view.

Steve closed his eyes, as Taryn wept.

He could still hear her heartbroken lament even as his vision cleared, and he found himself back in the apartment, staring about him at Natasha, Sam, and Wanda.

Natasha was the first to break the trance. "I once said love was for children." she said heavily. "I was never more wrong." She looked up. "I am far to much of a child for love."

Sam nodded wearily, Wanda concurring.

Steve looked up, surety in his eyes. "He will remember." He said, voice thick with disuse. "He promised."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Eight Years before Present Day**_

Steve stumbled out of the shawarma joint's door, out into the ruined street. His vision greying at the edges, he dazedly made his way to who knows where, his mind dim.

How long he walked in this state he knew not, but he was suddenly stopped by a woman's voice.

"Captain Rogers."

Steve stopped, because somehow the back of his mind registered that that was a title of his. He turned around, his unfocused eyes landing on the blurry figure of a woman in a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. Her mouth was moving, but no sound emitted.

Steve frowned, squinting. His hand felt the worn leather strap of his shield, which now seemed inconceivably heavy. His free hand flew to his side. He had been shot. He was in a war against—space aliens? The woman was coming closer. Maybe she was an alien.

Steve managed to raise his shield a quarter inch, presumably to defeat his adversary, but instead the darkness that had been lurking about him consumed, and he felt himself falling. He braced himself to hit the pavement, but instead his descent was easily halted, and he was lowered gently to the ground, a feat Steve was unused to since the war.

"Bucky." he breathed. The hand now holding his reflexively tightened, as he drifted into oblivion.

Tony stared at the glistening handprint on the table, then Rogers' chair, and swore. On the floor gleamed a glistening pool of red.

Tony paled. Had all of that blood come from Rogers? Dr. Banner hastily knelt by the chair, dipping his finger in the blood. He looked up, his eyes meeting Tony's.

"You need to find him." His gaze beyond the glasses was urgent.

Tony bolted. Out the wall, down the street he ran, then paused. Where did Cap go? There was probably a trail of blood, but then there was so much blood. His heart started pounding. He could hear the unspoken words Banner's gaze had communicated.

"He may be a super-soldier, but that's the only reason he's still alive. If he loses any more blood..."

Tony's hyperventilating mind clicked. "Jarvis, scan for Rogers." he spoke into his watch.

"Sir, Captain Rogers is not in the area, but there is a DNA trail I am picking up."

"Follow it." he barked.

The next few minutes were anxious, filled with fallowing the steady tracking of his watch, backtracking when he got off track, worrying about a national icon.

At last Jarvis spoke up.

"Sir, Captain Rogers is directly in front of you."

Tony's eyes flicked up. He saw a female S.H.I.E.L.D. agent bending over the prone figure of a man.

Their captain.

He sprang forward, leaping over debris. As he drew closer, he realized the agent was securing a small bandage on Roger's arm, having already done so to the wound on his side. He skidded to a stop. "How is he?" he queried, terrified, suddenly, at the man's white face and unnaturally still form. He also noted that the bandages came from the agent's apparel.

The woman straightened. "He's stable. I gave him a transfusion, and stopped the internal bleeding, but I was tired. He will still need to go to the hospital."

Then Tony noticed the odd assortment of wires and tubes on the ground, and there were somehow so many things wrong with her sentence-

"You gave him a transfusion with _that_?" he exclaimed, aghast.

The woman met his gaze. "It was either that, or let him die of blood loss."

Tony was still horrified. "But his—he—you'll infect him! You'll kill him! These haven't been sterilized!" He looked around, and caught sight of her arm, which also bore a makeshift bandage, and the absence of a blood bag.

His day finally caught up with him, and he promptly sat on the ground, the world crazily spinning.

The woman gave him a funny look. "His wound _was_ infected, but I rectified that." her hand lightl rested on Rogers' chest.

Tony was about to gather his wits enough to retort, when he heard footsteps behind him, and the lady turned to look. He turned, too, and beheld the super-sneaky people of the team.

Hawkeye took one look at the woman, and relaxed. "Agent Steele." he came forward, and knelt on Roger's other side, Romanoff doing the same. "Did you heal him?" he asked, and Tony was amazed at his perfect seriousness. Heal him? Good grief.

Steele shook her head. "Not completely." she said. "But the worst of the damage is fixed."

Hawkeye nodded, while Tony sat back, dumbfounded. Yes, today had been insane. But that gave nobody any excuse for this madness. Jarvis spoke for him.

"Sir, evacuation has arrived per Agent Steele's request."

Tony looked up, as did Romanoff. A quinjet hovered overhead, then moved away, landing farther up the street. The hatch opened, and four S.H.I.E.L.D. paramedics, bearing supplies and a stretcher, hurried out.

He, Natashalie, and Birdbrain backed away, yet Steele remained at her place by The Star-Spangled-Man-With-a-Plan's head.

And yes, he was relieved enough to use new-found nicknames; and no, had he ever been worried?

Barton came over by him, standing silently. The paramedics were efficient, and soon had Cap loaded onto the stretcher. The lead medic turned to Tony.

"Looks like he'll be just fine, Mr. Stark. Thanks for calling it in." he left as Tony stared after him confusedly.

Tony looked at agent Steele, who was still kneeling on the ground, head bowed. He addressed his watch.

"Jarvis, I thought you said Steele requested evac." his gaze never left her.

"Sir, Agent Steele overrode my commands and posted the distress signal herself."

Tony dropped his wrist. "What?" he cast a sidelong glance her way. "Do I even _want_ to know?"

Hawkeye rolled his shoulders. "Don't know about you, but all that Chitauri-fighting, Loki-subduing, and shawarma-eating has me beat. I for one," he turned to Tony, "am taking you up on your offer. Point me to the tower."

Tony pointed, then turned to The Agent. Natasha was kneeling by her, helping her stand. Tony did a double-take at the sight of her ghost-white face. Oh, right, blood transfusion.

"How much blood did you give, anyway?" he queried curiously.

"Enough." she smiled faintly, leaning heavily on Rushman—no, Romanoff, he corrected-'s shoulder.

Tony did some quick mental calculations. With the amount of blood the super-soldier had lost, the sum it would take to stabilize him would be-

He caught Steele just as she fell.

"Enough, huh?" he grunted under the sudden burden. Hawkeye snorted.

"She's not _that_ heavy."

But Tony ignored him, and looped her arm over his shoulder. He began to walk, but Steele chose that moment to completely pass out, her legs buckling; and leave him with her full weight. Tony stumbled, cursing, then he put his arm under her knees, and swooped her jerkily up, her head lolling, before coming to rest on his shoulder.

"Any day now, Jarvis."he groaned. Barton, hard-hearted man that he was, laughed. Romanoff was grinning.

The Stark car drove up then, luckily for the woman in his arms, and he hastily deposited her in the passenger's seat. He walked around, and crawled into the driver's side.

"Where are we going?" a voice happily inquired from the back seat. Tony jumped, slamming his head into the roof. Groaning, he espied, through the rear-view mirror, the two assassins calmly buckled into the backseats.

"To the Tower." he growled. Barton leaned back complacently, Natasha's head in his lap.

Jarvis drove the car, leaving Tony alone with his thoughts.

He primarily thought of Cap. Steele over there had said something about 'internal bleeding'. And Cap had also lost a huge amount of blood outside. So there was large chance that, back at the joint, Cap hadn't called him 'Howard' out of malice aforethought, but out of fevered hallucinations.

Fine. He was feeling guilty. What had Rogers said? "I never was a grandpa."? Ouch.

Tony sighed, thinking a little further back, to their altercation in the Helicarrier; and, yep, he had been quite unfeeling there as well. Sure, Rogers' words had hurt, but Tony was starting to realize that Loki's scepter had most likely been the cause of his harshness. Not to mention that Tony had pretty much been goading him to blows-

Tony hated apologizing.

Tony Stark stormed into the Natasha's room at the tower. She, sitting on her bed, raised her eyes to his impatient ones.

"Explain?" he said. "Please?"

Natasha sighed. She had a headache, and a whiny Stark was not the cure. But she deigned his meaning.

"Agent Steele is a-" she paused. It was actually pretty complicated to explain. She pursed her lips. "A telepath." she enunciated slowly, for his benefit. "She can, well, _interact_ with the human form, healing cells, repairing the molecular biology; and technology, like Jarvis." She nodded to his watch, silently pleading that Stark would keep the dirty joke that hovered about his evilly smiling mouth to his own warped brain.

Thankfully, for his health, he complied to her unspoken command, and was silent. She looked at him.

"Why do you ask?"she asked, curiosity getting the better of her weariness.

"Banner called."

She wrinkled her forehead in confusion, which Tony noticed.

"Oh, he an Thor took Loki to S.H.I.E.L.D, and they dropped by Cap. He's already awake. Besides, Barton mentioned Steele 'healing' him." he rubbed his hands together. "Telepath, huh?" he turned to go.

"Tony." Natasha called. He stopped, turned. She paused, struck by the expression in his eyes. There was a tentative spark of friendship there, awakened by the simple act of using his name. She bit down a smile.

"Her name is Taryn."

He smiled back. "Thanks, Nat."


	6. Chapter 6

_**Five years before the Battle of New York**_

Laura Barton paused in her work, lifting sweaty hair off of her forehead. She rested her hand on her distended womb, feeling the thrilling kick of a new life. She smiled tenderly, glancing about the baby room she was preparing.

Cooper. Named after Clint's father, their firstborn son was a true treasure. She gave a hot sigh, and moved through the house, then out onto the porch. She stood, glancing over the countryside, down the access road. The baby being due soon, Clint would be home today. Laura glanced through the door to the clock in the kitchen. He should be home right now, actually…

"Please, help me."

Laura gave a startled shriek, and spun around, face-to-face with a woman.

The woman held out her hand. "Please."

Laura's mind flitted through all of the self-defense protocols her husband had shown her, none of which, she suddenly decided, had been intended for expecting mothers. The woman took a step back, clearly trying to appear non-threatening. The retreating step was more of a stagger, however, and the woman crumpled to the ground, her face pale, her breathing heavy.

"What's your name?" asked Laura.

"Tar-" the woman paused, and recollected herself. "Steele. I am Agent Steele."

Laura backed carefully away, unsure. The woman looked harmless, but some looks were designed to fool. Just the, she heard the familiar sound of a racketing old truck. She decided to stall for time.

"What do you want?" she queried.

The woman raised bloodshot eyes with an effort, her mouth working.

"I'm looking for-" the door of a vehicle opened, rushed footsteps could be heard. Agent Steele's voice was lost in Clint's.

"Laura!" he bellowed, racing up the path. He leaped onto the porch, and gently took hold of Laura, backpedaling, his gun aimed at the strange woman's head.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" exclaimed Laura. "She isn't dangerous!"

She didn't know how she had reached this conclusion, only that it was unerringly true. Even if Steele was dangerous, Laura was somehow sure she would never be on the receiving end of harm.

"Don't shoot." she reiterated.

With a sigh, Clint lowered his gun.

 _ **Present Day**_

Tony gave a soft groan, his eyes struggling to focus. His tongue felt like a mattress, thick and dry. His head pounded dully.

It must have been an awesome party, the immature part of his mind reflected, because this was a hangover worthy of a very Hot Place.

Then a shaky voice broke through his awareness, and a low moan fled his lips.

Taryn.

The hospital.

He kept his eyes shut. They thought she'd tried to kill herself. He shuddered, and sat up.

They were alone in the room, he on the uncomfortable couch, she tossing on the presumably equally uncomfortable bed. Standing slowly, he made his way to her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glazed and burning. At last, her roving gaze landed on him.

"Howard." she breathed.

Tony reflexively winced, then frowned in confusion. Only Cap had ever confused him with his father. Why was Taryn—How would she even have—I mean, his dad was dead before this lady was ever born, right? Right?

She blinked, and drew a breath. "Howard." she murmured. "Knew you weren't dead." her gaze flickered around, then back to him. "Bucky." she whispered. "Find Bucky. Before it's too late." Her eyes softly shut, her breathing grew even.

A smile grew on Tony's face, hope momentarily banishing confusion. Would she actually sleep? For a few minutes, indeed, she slumbered, Tony never moving, hardly daring to breathe, lest he disturb her. Then her eyes flew open. Her gaze met Tony's, and it was lucid.

"Dr. Stark?" she rasped, and though hoarse, her voice was clear.

Tony gleefully answered. "Right-O, Casper."

With a wan smile, she propped herself on an elbow, glancing about her. Eying her, Tony wondered how much she was aware of. Did she remember her ramblings? _Did she remember killing herself?_ The question asked itself.

"Taryn, why'd'you kill yourself?" his voice was raw, and he hated it.

Taryn eyed him. "That's what it probably looked like." she considered.

"What it looked like?!" Tony's worry, grief, shame—all flooded him in an instant. Here he was, living through his worst nightmare, and all she could do was deny reality? "Taryn, you even left a suicidal phone message!" he exclaimed angrily.

Suddenly, something Tony had never expected to see occurred. Oh, he hoped Jarvis was recording this historic moment. Even in his most furious moments, he could not resist blackmail material.

The spy, so observant and secretive that she'd earned the name of 'Spectre', looked surprised. And quite worried.

"Tony, I never-" she began guardedly, but broke off, as Tony interrupted.

"Then what's this?" he retorted, pressing his watch.

Taryn's voice filled the room. There was no mistake—it had to be her voice. Tony stared accusingly, hough inwardly amused at Taryn's astonished face. When she looked up at him, her face was—scared.

He lifted his eyebrows in expectation of an explanation. Taryn's breath quickened.

"Tony, I never sent that."

At the desperation in her voice, something wilted inside him, some faint hope that it had been some sort of an imitation. "It was you."

"Yes, but-"

He turned away. He heard a low sound, and when he looked back, her face was set. She beckoned him closer, and he came.

She pulled the collar of her frail gown down, so her clavicle was visible.

"Look closely." she said.

Moving his head closer, he scanned her neck, feeling, for a former playboy, surprisingly awkward. Actually, he felt like a vampire. Maybe it was the way she turned her head, like from that old movie. How did it go? 'I have come to suck your-'

Then he saw it. The vague imprints of fingers surrounding her neck. He recoiled, revolted. Those marks meant only one thing. His mind spun dizzily, he felt ill. Someone had touched Taryn, for one, which was inexcusable; and for another, someone had put their hands over her neck, and-

He stopped himself, clenching his head in his hands. He wanted to swear, but remembered Taryn. He strained every nerve, and was silent.

Taryn suddenly straightened, and froze, her unseeing gaze drifting over his shoulder. She gasped.

"They're here." she murmured. Tony watched bewilderedly, stunned out of making any 'Frodo' comments, as Taryn tore out the various cords and tubes that were attached to her, standing on the bed. Despite her no longer being hooked up to them, the machines never varied in their steady beeping. Taryn yanked open the shade, and the moonlight streamed in. Tony stepped back.

"Who's here, what are you doing?" he yelled, hearing the footsteps in the hall, and loud voices banging at a door he didn't remember locking.

Taryn turned to him, eyes urgent. The door flung open, ripped off its hinges. Armed men raced in, guns trained on the woman in the filmy hospital gown.

"Freeze." a voice rang out.

Ignoring it, Taryn made a sweeping gesture, and the window glass shattered.

Tony froze, finding several guns held to his head. He knew these uniforms. They were UN goons. Which meant Ross-

A shot rang out from the hospital room's door, and at that moment, Taryn jumped. Tony, looking to the door, stared. A look of bleak hatred graced Ross' face, as he gripped his newly fired weapon.

"Ground floor, now!" Ross barked, and the soldiers sped out, leaving dumbfounded Tony with Ross.

Tony's eyes drifted to the window. Glass lay scattered everywhere, and also blood. A rather sizable amount.

His stomach turned, and his mind seared. Taryn.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Four years before the Battle of New York**_

Agent Phil Coulson hurried down the hallway. His meeting with Agent Steele wasn't supposed to begin for another hour, so he was positive he would be there first. He located the door to his office, and raced to it, slamming to a halt when he saw his desk chair.

Beaten again.

The chair was turned from the door, facing the window. As he slunk in, a woman's voice issued forth.

"Don't you ever knock?" she asked seriously.

Coulson readjusted his tie, and straightened his jacket. It would probably be less humiliating if the Level Four agents would stop betting on his defeat. They were accumulating wealth at a discouraging rate.

"Well, the door was open." he replied blandly.

The door behind him closed, seemingly on its own accord, causing Phil to jump, though he knew the actual cause. The char swiveled around, revealing a smiling Agent Steele.

"You were saying?" she teased.

Phil mock frowned. "You get out of my swivel chair. Swiveling is reserved for Level Seven agents only."

Then Agent Steele _really_ smiled. She stood, and proffered her badge. Phil saw it in amazement.

"You got the promotion?" he exclaimed. At her confirming nod, he leaped over the desk, and engulfed her in a hug.

"Taryn, that's incredible!" Welcome to Level Seven, agent. He grinned.

Taryn initially stiffened in his embrace, then relaxed. She even tentatively hugged him back. That was immense progress in their friendship. Yay!

"I know, I can hardly believe it!" she laughed as he released her. Her tongue now loosened, she began to explain her most recent mission, and how its success had led to her promotion.

Phil smiled. This was the Taryn only he, in (as far as he was aware) the entire waking world knew. Agent Sitwell could never figure out why he would prefer "that distant Agent Steele"'s company to the more infectious agents. Phil shuddered at the thought of some of them. There was such a thing as _too_ forward, and so Phil appreciated the reserve of Taryn. Besides, he was well aware, and touched by the trust she showed him, in making him her confidant.

He had yet to find her a date, though. He needed to give her someone, some man who could make her happy. Maybe he could set her up with a Level Eight.

 _ **Three years before the Battle of New York**_

"Steele, any day now." Barton barked through the comm, fluidly dispatching three Russian guards with a single arrow.

"On it." he heard her gasp. Clint sighed. He was less than fifty feet from the vault door, and the laser grid was still not deactivated. Only two arrows were left; well, really only one, for the other was the special arrow designed to bypass the vault door. He paused behind the last pillar before the long and empty hall that led to the vault. Two guards appeared then, and Clint made effective use of his last available arrow. Then, finally setting the Vaultarrow to his bow, he gave the signal.

There was a limited window between when Taryn hacked the laser grid, and security was alerted. To take advantage of this, Clint needed to be at the grid before it was opened. Which meant he was now racing full speed towards a laser-guarded, locked vault door.

Thirty feet, twenty, ten. The grid was still there.

"Steele!" he yelled, drawing back his bow.

The arrow flew, the grid drawing back at the last minute, and connected to the door, throwing it open as Clint barreled into the vault.

"You have one minute before they swarm the place." Agent Steele's terse voice sounded in his ear.

Swiftly glancing about him, Barton spotted the ancient cabinet that was the property of the Soviets. He started at the top drawer, reciting in his mind the names of the files he was instructed to extract. He soon finished the first cabinet, and moved into the second.

"Thirty seconds."

Thirty seconds?! He quickened his search, depositing the papers into his black satchel, hastily acquiring more.

"Twenty seconds."

He slammed the last cabinet shut, swung the satchel over his shoulder, and bolted out the door, clutching his bow.

"Ten."

Alarms were ringing. He could hear the tramp of booted feet, and sped up, flying out of the pillared room, skidding into the hallway.

"Six." Steele's voice was choppy, indicating that she too was in hurried flight.

Barton raced down the hall, flinging open the doors, and sliding into the snowy courtyard. Across from him he saw Steele doing the same, both headed towards a just-landing quinjet. He reached the dropping hatch moments before her, still keeping time in his head. Three seconds. Okay, time to get antsy.

Steele, surprising him with her strength, shoved him into the jet, hopping up as the quinjet lifted off, and angry Russians filled the courtyard.

"Uh." said Clint, feeling his empty quiver with dismay. "We've got company."

The Russians raised their guns, preparing to barrage the enemy aircraft. Looking to his left, however, Clint saw something that meant all was well, and the Soviets wouldn't be firing their weapons at anybody anytime soon. Taryn was closing her eyes in concentration. Man, he wished he were a walking weapons disrupter. It would make his job so much easier.

Clint looked down at the flabbergasted guards. Seeing their discombobulation, he did the only thing there really was left to do.

He stuck his tongue out.

"See ya, losers!" he called, as the hatch shut, and the jet picked up speed.

 _Author's note: Feel free to leave a review, I love comments and criticism! :)_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Present Day**_

Sam Wilson deftly piloted their 'borrowed' quinjet onto the helipad of the Avengers Tower. The tower was dark, and obviously abandoned. Man, this place was creepy at night.

He turned the pilot's chair about, to face Natasha. "Any word from Steve?"

"He just arrived in Wakanda. They're headed straight to the cryo chamber." She stood, and straightened her business outfit. Wanda got up as well.

They exited the jet, moving quickly to the door of the tower. As she walked, Natasha pulled out a thin tablet to hack past the firewall of Stark's security.

Sam drew Wanda into the shadow of the door, looking expectantly to Natasha.

Uh, oh. Something was terribly wrong. Natasha's face was pale, her eyes locked on the screen.

"Tony sold the tower a month ago." she whispered.

Sam spun around, as the door behind him burst open. He felt himself propelled into Natasha with a red blast of energy, and looked up to see Wanda surrounded by a swarm of UN soldiers. More converged upon Sam and Natasha.

The last thing Sam thought before being injected with—something—was:

Seriously? Now?

Peter Parker alighted soundlessly in the alley by his apartment. It was a school night, so he knew he should turn in about now. Grabbing his backpack from where it was attached to the wall, he hurriedly changed. He was stuffing his Spider-Man suit into the bag, when a sound caught his attention. Running footsteps. Making his way carefully to the end of the alley, he peaked out.

A woman in a bloody hospital gown was being pursued by four gun-carrying men in black combat uniforms.

Peter looked down at the mask still in his hands. If this didn't qualify for the friendly-neighborhood-Spider-man category, he'd eat his head.

By the time his mask and web-shooters were on, the woman was almost to his alley.

"Karen, taser-webs." he hissed. That would be best, right? Those guys didn't look like they would be easily tied up.

Squinting one eye, he expertly fired an electrically charged web, taking down one guy. Sweet. But there was no time for early celebration, so he electrocuted the other three, they collapsing by their comrade. Peter, satisfied, stepped out just in time to catch the lady. Not really catch her, just have her run into him, and stand there a dazed moment, before suddenly shoving him into the alley, where they both fell.

"Hide." she whispered urgently.

Peter now lay on the ground, with her on top of him. This was so awkward. He felt a warm wetness creeping up his side. Wait, was his side blushing? That would be weird—oh, no. She had been bleeding.

Peter gently rolled her off of himself, so she lay on her back, and knelt beside her. She was pale, sweat beading her forehead. The red stain on her gown was growing, spreading, pooling on the alley ground. Oh, no. Oh, no.

"Karen, help!" he yelped. "Um, call Mr. Stark!" There was too much blood. This could not be good. The woman convulsively pressed a hand to her side.

"I'm sorry, Peter. You'll have to leave a message." came Karen's distressed voice.

"Fine." said Peter, worriedly ripping of his gloves. "Uh, Mr. Stark? There's a woman here, she's bleeding..." There was embedded glass in her arm, he noticed. Seriously? "I don't know what to do—oh, no, hey!" Peter exclaimed, as the woman's head lolled back. Tearing off his mask, he patted her face. People should stay awake, right?

The woman's eyes landed on him. "They're coming." she moaned. She began to struggle to her feet. Peter tried to resist her, but somehow she rose anyway.

"You have to go." she said, looking down at him. She was really tall. Peter shook his head.

"No, I can't. If you're talking about those scary guys chasing you, I can handle this." He knelt down, and picked up his mask, about to put it on.

The woman clutched his arm, flinging the mask away from them. A weak smile flickered across her face.

"This is to big." she said softly. "Even for you."

"But I-" he broke off, seeing her face. He looked away. The last person who'd used that expression on him had been Mr. Stark, when- "This is where I'm like, 'You're the adult.' , and I listen.." He nodded to himself, trying to-

The woman suddenly snatched his left arm, and twisted it behind his back, not painfully, only enough to turn them both to facing the street, looking out of the alley. With a squeal of tires, an unmarked black van pulled into view, and men poured out. Bright, blinding light shone in Peter's eyes, and he heard a commanding "Freeze!", before the woman's voice rang out.

"One step closer, and he dies!"

Peter could feel her right hand poised over his head. Was she talking about him? Funny he didn't feel threatened. A heavy weight had rested over his limbs, it paralyzed him, rendered him helpless to move.

The oncoming soldiers froze; and the lead one seemingly reasoning at the woman; but all Peter was aware of was the fact that a warm wetness was oozing through the back of his shirt and jacket, and the hand that had hovered above his head was now weakly resting on it, coating his hair in blood. Oh, no—no, no, no!

The lead man shrugged, evidently finding reasoning useless, and gestured to someone behind him. In the brief moment of confusion, the woman bent her head, and whispered in his ear, barely a breath.

"I'm Taryn. You have to let them take me. But please, find Bucky." Then, she stepped back, and collapsed onto the ground. Peter stared in shock, unable to move under the power of the strange force holding him immobile, as the men converged upon her.

 _ **Three weeks after the Battle of New York**_

Clint Barton slunk out of the psych evalve room of the Helicarrier, casting an apprehensive eye about him.

It had been two weeks. Two hellish weeks of psychoanalysis by S.H.I.E.L.D. shrinks. Not that he could really blame them. He had, after all, practically murdered hundreds of people; not to mention, intended for thousands, what with his foiled plan to crash the Helicarrier. And despite Tasha's insistence that it was all somehow Loki's fault, Clint felt, somehow, strangely (sarcasm intended) personally responsible. How very odd of him, to feel guilty for attempting to end the lives of millions of innocent hardworking people.

Hence his reluctance to return home. Some faraway, untainted part of his mind insisted that Laura would be worrying by now, especially with the news reports, but he _couldn't_ face her. He couldn't face his wife, Coop, baby Lila. Not with blood on his hands. Not with _Phil's_ -

He'd done it. Killed Phil. And while Natasha, out of her own wealth of experience, had somehow forgiven him, he couldn't forgive himself. So while he couldn't go home, every nook and cranny of the Helicarrier only served as a painful reminder that Phil was gone. Every passing glance of a fellow agent seemed a scorching accusation, laying the guilt of the death of their superior squarely at the feet of the murderer. Yet it was even worse than the other agents could ever blame him, for Coulson had been only their superior, but Phil had been Clint's friend.

But the seeming hostility of the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents was not the only reason he skulked around. He was avoiding someone.

Taryn.

Agent Steele. After the horrors of the battle, and the ill-fated after-shawarma occurrence, the events of the carrier had faded so far into the back of his mind, that when he met her in the street, as they'd been looking for Cap, he hadn't really seen with whom he was discoursing, except in a vague, dreamlike state. He had fallen asleep in Stark's car, woken up briefly to stumble into Stark's tower, then collapsed into a bed.

Remembrance, with sleep, came.

It was a nightmare, but of a memory. He had destroyed the first engine of the Helicarrier, the quinjet had landed, and he had exited. The only agent on deck had been Taryn, newly landed. She had turned to him, still shocked from the blast. Recognition dawning in her eyes, his name had formed on her horrified lips.

And he had shot her.

Clint had awakened then, gasping. But the image wouldn't go away. He'd shot her. In cold blood, the arrow slamming into her left shoulder, driving her backwards before exploding. Then he had walked away, presumably to complete his Loki-appointed mission.

Now, as he sneaked around the Helicarrier's halls, he needed to frequently remind himself that, no, Taryn was not dead. Not that he'd seen her since after-shawarma, but he'd done some covert spying of the security cameras, and yes, she was undoubtedly alive. The camera hacking served dual purpose, for he was also able to avoid her route, thus sparing himself the pain of meeting her face-to-face.

He still saw her face, however, in his mind.

Terrified.

She had been _scared,_ and Taryn was never scared. For crying out loud, she wasn't even a person, she was a Spectre, a ghost with no emotions. But now she was scared, and that fear had been because of him.

"Clint."

So when he skirted around a corner, running into Taryn, prompting her to speak, he backpedaled hastily. Stumbling backwards, he landed heavily on the ground, his mind screaming, vividly replaying the events ever in his head. Vaguely, he was aware of Taryn kneeling beside him.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Taryn. I'm sorry." he cried out. He hadn't meant to. He hadn't wanted to. Even as his arm had swiftly drawn back the string, his heart had futilely resisted.

"Shh."

Taryn's hand was on his forehead, her eyes on his face. She was soothing him, trying to comfort him, and she shouldn't, because he had tried to kill her. He had tried to kill everyone.

"Taryn, I killed him. I killed Phil." his words were broken.

Her face paled, her hand trembled, but still she sat by him. His mind was slowly cleared, along with his vision.

"No, you didn't." Her voice was low, sure. "Loki did."

He gave a wavering laugh. "If I could believe that-"

He was cut off by Taryn, who abruptly yanked him upright. He gasped, her strength, as always, amazing him.

"Look at me." her gaze was hard, but tear-filled, when he met it. "That was _Loki_. Clint Barton would never do that. Any of it."

"But I did." he whispered, pained. He'd shot her.

Taryn's look softened. "But I'm alive." she caught his chin, forcing him to look at her. "Hawkeye never misses. If Clint Barton had wanted me dead, he would have killed me."

A small spark of hope pierced him. Was it possible? His mind flitted to the times he had fought Loki's control. Shooting Fury in his bulletproof vest, not his head. Letting Hill get to cover, instead of murdering her. And even though he'd shot Taryn with an _exploding_ arrow, he'd shot her in the shoulder, not the heart.

"It was Loki..." he murmured. Taryn gently rested his head on her shoulder as he wept.

"Go home." she whispered gently. "Go to Laura."

He wept, face muffled in her shoulder.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Six months after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.**_

Steve Rogers nervously drummed his fingers on the diner's table, wondering why he had allowed Natasha to set this up. A double date? Seriously, what had he been thinking?

And a blind date as well, at least for him. Natasha was dragging Wilson to their dinner, provided Sam exclusively remember that this was for Steve's benefit, an effort to get him reconnected to the world, and did not mean that Wilson had a chance with her. Not that, as Sam had privately informed Steve, he even _wanted_ to know her any better than he did now.

But the real reason Steve was so apprehensive was that he feared Tony might be behind this, in another half-cocked attempt to get him to 'loosen up'. If so, his date was probably one of those 'Virginia Secret's models, that everybody kept going on about. He shuddered, thinking back to the time that Tony, finding that Steve hadn't known who they were, had taken the liberty of showing a few pictures. Even now, Steve blushed for them.

Thankfully, his attention was diverted by a slight disturbance at the diner door, as a patron entered from the chilly nocturnal outdoors. Glancing upward, his eyes alighted on none other than Taryn. The woman's eyes flicked about her, before falling on Steve. He could have sworn they narrowed slightly, but such thoughts were dispelled by the friendly smile that lit up her face.

* * *

The moment Taryn had seen Steve, she knew there was going to be no covert meeting with an ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, likewise no clandestine exchange of information. Instead, she had been set up.

She should have guessed it, considering her information had come from no other than Tony Stark. But it was far too late now. She had been set up by Phil Coulson so many times that she knew there would be no polite way to disengage herself; and under no circumstances would she risk hurting Steve.

She splashed a convincing smile on her face, even as the diner door behind her opened, revealing an entering Natasha Romanoff, and Tony Stark.

* * *

Tony probably should not have come, but when Sam Wilson had phoned Russian-off, in his hearing, that he'd be unable to make it, he could not resist.

Natasha, as usual, had timed their arrival perfectly. That's what'd made her such a great PA. He was just in time to see Cap's dumbfounded face, and Taryn's disgusted one. He didn't know which was more invigorating, the fact that Rogers looked mildly pleased about having Steele as a date, or that he had actually tricked the sneaky ghost herself. 'Cause he knew if she had caught the slightest hint of the date, she would have never have showed.

Mentally patting himself on the back, Tony joined Natasha and Taryn as they marched to join Cap at the table.

Tony smirked when Roger's gaze fell on him, confusedly dwelling before flitting to Romanoff, who scooted into the booth opposite Cap.

"Wilson couldn't make it." she explained briefly.

Cap's eyes filled with concern, as he wedged himself against the wall, making ample room for Taryn, who perched herself on the far edge of the seat.

"Birdie's fine, Spangles, don't fret your grey head." replied Tony, before Cap could ask, easily sliding himself beside his favorite female assassin. He briefly considered draping his arm over her shoulder, but decided against it, having grown fond of that particular appendage. Instead, he crossed his arms, leaning back. This evening should proceed rather well, having been the product of months of planning.

Setting Rogers up with Steele had been Tony's idea, of course. It was the mere continuation of two vague desires that had floated through his head ever since he'd made both of their acquaintance. One was, well—how would you put this. Rogers needed to loosen up. Seriously, you should have seen the outraged expression his face had insisted on wearing for the rest of the week after he'd seen those lingerie models. The old man definitely needed a life.

The second wish was slightly more complicated. By that he meant that it was generally understood by the Avengers that Steve would eventually get comfortable and adjusted on his own, given time; but for Tony's second dream to be fulfilled—well, it definitely entailed effort.

He wanted Taryn to smile.

When he had first laid eyes on her, he'd been shocked by the sternness of her gaze. But he had been still more confused when he'd found out that was her default look. Seriously, she always bore this expression of sad disappointment, the kind Ste—Cap—sometimes wore when he though of the good ol' days. But even Rogers relaxed sometimes. He even laughed, _really_ laughed, normally during times when the team was together at the tower, before or after a mission.

But Taryn had yet to smile.

Sure, she seemed fairly happy to be living in the Avengers Tower with the rest of them. Tony was almost certain she even thought of it as her him. He wouldn't make the assumption that she counted the Avengers as her family.

But while her lips sometimes grinned when Tony cracked jokes, Clint pulled pranks, Steve seemed to be enjoying himself despite the modern day world, Thor said something hilarious, or Natasha unbent enough to condescend to let Bruce paint her nails (or the sight of Bruce painting nails), Tony still saw that _look_ in her eyes. That haunted, hopeless look that prompted him to wonder what her life had been before S.H.I.E.L.D.

Just once, he wanted her to smile with more than her mouth.

Then it had hit him. Taryn had no social life. As in, none at all. Now, while he would not admit to be a little on the more mature side of the age spectrum, he had eyes enough to see that Taryn was considerably younger than he was—yet she never went out, she never had company, she never even got drunk. If there was ever a major function for the Avengers, she was always conveniently absent.

So there was the answer. Taryn needed (he hated to say a boyfriend—maybe romantic interest? Whatever.) And it was up to he, the brilliant Tony Stark to get her into the world, where she would find her special someone—and _voilà_ , all problems solved. _Then_ would Taryn smile, blushing over flowers and chocolate and mash notes and walks in the park.

All previous attempts to this noble purpose had failed.

Every. Single. One.

Which had drawn Tony back to square one. That is, until a few months back, when he had caught Steve staring moodily out a window, and everything had clicked.

Steve was alone. Taryn was alone. It was like a light had switched on. They even shared the same puritan morals. It was perfect.

So had begun the months of careful planning. Getting Natasha to drop hints, subtle at first, but growing more blunt as neither seemed to understand. Occasionally leaving the two alone, preferably in the dark. Rebooting his attempts at forcing Taryn to become more sociable, then persuading Bruce to take Natasha to any parties, so that Cap would be forced to escort Taryn. All this effort slowly, surely working to the goal—Steve asking Taryn out.

But as the months had steadily progressed, with nothing notable occurring, Tony had been forced to execute drastic measures.

A blind date.

Okay, not his most original idea, but desperate times call for desperate actions. he'd also been aware, however, that there was no way Taryn would agree to a blind date. He knew, because he'd asked her once, and she'd flatly refused. Thus the subterfuge.

Now, as he sat grinning beside Romanoff, he was immensely proud. Granted, there was enough space between the two to comfortably maneuver a car through, but Tony refused to dwell on this depressing fact, preferring the more comfortable one of his own brilliance.

* * *

Natasha had a headache.

She had been nursing the migraine since she had woken up in the morning.

Her day had gone downhill from there.

Wilson's call had compounded it; and now, sitting beside Stark, opposite an uncomfortable Steve and Taryn, Natasha wondered why she had ever agreed to Tony's harebrained scheme. She knew this was really all for Steve, who did need some form of recreation, to take his mind off of his fruitless search. And it would be a good thing for him, if it worked out with Taryn.

Of course, she was having doubts about the likelihood of any of this. Steve's eyes were a mixture of pain and regret. Most likely, he was thinking of a former date. Or rather, a date he'd missed.

That was lovely.

* * *

Somehow, some impossible way, Steve managed to keep his composure through the entirety of the date. He had thought he was ready for this. But when Taryn had sat by him, his only thought was of Peggy.

Peggy.

And it was too much.

The moment it was politely advisable, he left, silently vowing never to go again.

* * *

As Tony watched Rogers hastily run off, a perplexed frown visited his forehead. Obviously, things had not clicked between the Spectre and the Soldier.

The minute the thought entered his head, he heard Taryn gasp. Looking up, he saw her pale face.

Oops, he'd said that out loud. But still, why did Taryn look like she'd eaten her dog?

But her features were instantly schooled, dispersing all further speculation, as she rose to go.

"Thank you Mr. Stark." she said calmly. "I've had an enjoyable evening."

Right.

Then her gaze turned cool. "But don't ever do that again."

Tony froze, glass halfway to his lips. He felt that unspoken 'or else'. What would she do? He was more than perfectly aware of her capabilities. Especially when regarding bodily harm. Particularly internally.

So maybe tricking her hadn't been such a fantastic idea.

Suddenly, however, Taryn smiled.

As in, _really_ smiled.

That night, thinking over the failed date, Tony though of Taryn's smile. Granted, it had been a callous response to his abject terror—but it had been real. Technically, he had succeeded—Taryn had smiled from the inside, tapping into some forgotten well of happiness inside her.

But the minute Tony had seen it, he had decided he never wanted to view it again. There was so much resignation in it, so much—well—sorrow, he guessed. As though she could never be truly happy again, because whatever joy lurked in her hidden heart was tainted by some unforgettable sorrow.

He couldn't even think of a substitute choice word to accompany it. Apparently, Casper and Captain Purity were limiting his vocabulary.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Present Day**_

Steve Rogers matched T'Challa's step through the halls of the Wakandan palace. Their footsteps echoed hollowly down the pristine, marble-lined walls, as they swiftly strode to the cryo chamber. The passage turned a corner, and through the door they saw their destination. The king of Wakanda halted before the cryofreezing chamber, turning to Steve.

"I did not ask before, but need drives me now." His cultured voice was calm, but determined. "What brings you here?"

Steve had been _hoping_ against hope that T'Challa would be content to let Bucky and he go, no questions asked. Because this story was not going to be, well, easy to explain. After all, Taryn _had_ been mysteriously absent ever since the Avengers' battle against Ultron. And for years before—actually, until S.H.I.E.L.D.'s fall—Taryn had been virtually inexistent, at least according to the world at large. But even having been the seventh member of a world-renowned team did not necessarily grant her Wakandan recognition. In fact, as far as Steve could tell, Wakanda didn't seem to care about anything in the world at large, besides the illegal sale of vibranium.

Steve tried to figure out the best way to explain everything. "Well," he began. "Do you know of a Spectre?"

Recognition sparked immediately in the king's eyes. "Taryn."

Steve blinked.

T'Challa eyed him intently. "She is in trouble?"

Steve nodded blankly. "She needs to see Bucky."

T'Challa considered this. Then he nodded. "I trust you, captain." Moving forward, he entered a series of numbers into the keypad. "And I will help you." he took a step back, nodding to the frosted glass. "I already have."

The door slowly slid open, white mist pouring out. There was a brief stillness, and Bucky stepped out. Steve gaped.

"Your arm." he exclaimed, gesturing to Bucky's left side, where formerly an ugly stump had been.

Bucky grinned lopsidedly, waving his shining left hand. Steve stared. T'Challa, an expression of pride flickering around his eyes, gently laid a hand on Bucky's shoulder.

"You may thank my sister for this. Pure vibranium.." T'Challa smiled.

Steve nodded his thanks, and T'Challa stepped away. "I am sure your errand is urgent, and I hope you find Taryn well."

Bucky stiffened. "Who?" There was an artificial lightness to his tone, but underneath ran a current of surprise.

"Taryn Steele." Steve turned to him quizzically. "You know her."

"No, I don't." Bucky answered promptly, almost reflexively. "Is there a reason I should?"

Steve frowned. "Cut it out, Buck. I _know_ you know her." he strode to the door, then turned abruptly,, confused, realizing there were no following footsteps. Bucky's jaw was tightened.

Steve frowned, perplexed. "June 6, 1954." he supplied, in an effort to jog Bucky's memory.

Bucky's breath caught. "That date. How did you know that date?" his voice was harsh, his hands trembled.

Steve scrutinized his friend, a cold concern creeping in him. "Bucky, don't you remember Taryn?"

Bucky froze, turning deathly pale.

Steve was flung off his feet by Bucky's tackle, landing heavily upon the polished floor, his cellphone clattering to the ground away from him. Bucky's fist smashed into the stone inches from Steve's face.

"No!" Bucky roared, barely coherent. He pounded his fist into the ground. "No!" Again the rock splinters flew. "I am not held to my promise." he spat, face nearly touching Steve's. "She did not keep hers."

Steve panted. Hold on, Bucky thought-

Steve gripped Bucky's arm. "You idiot, Taryn's alive!"

Bucky paused, completely rigid. "She's alive." he whispered. Steve glimpsed the look on his face, and ceased his struggle to rise. That look of pure hope-

T'Challa strode forward, and Steve, gently pushing Bucky backwards, stood. T'Challa handed him his suddenly buzzing cellphone. Steve glanced at it, then stopped. His head whipped around to the wonder-struck man kneeling upon the ground.

"Buck, we've got to go."

His clipped tone broke through Bucky's daze, and he stood instantly. "Steve, what's wrong?"

"Avengers distress call." Steve answered brusquely, beginning to drag Bucky to the door. "I'll explain on the way."

What on earth could have driven everyone—Tony, Natasha, Sam, Wanda, Clint, Taryn—to all post distress signals? What had happened?

 _ **Three days after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.**_

This was so not happening again.

Ever.

Tony Stark would see to that.

He was in his lab now, feverishly inputting his latest tech into a small rectangular device. The metal object was about the size of a pocket drive, with a single round depression in the center.

It had been three straight days since his self-imposed exile from the outside world. Seventy-two hours. He was pretty sure the only thing keeping him from collapsing was the fact that his bloodstream was, by now, pure caffeine.

But that thought did not bother him in the least—he was much too preoccupied with another. Tony gently laid the device onto the workbench, and swiveled around, facing the empty center of the room.

"Jarvis, play that clip again."

The Al's voice sounded almost worried. Was that even possible? He had made the thing and he didn't even know.

"What are you now, Baymax? Show me the clip."

Did Jarvis just sigh?

The lights dimmed, and a holographic image appeared before him. A lump formed in his throat.

There they were. The three Helicarriers lambasting each other out of the sky. Tony had first seen this clip on his way back from—what, he had no idea. His mind had been immediately hijacked by the news, ablaze with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets.

Like the fact that it was Hydra.

And Nick Fury was dead.

The first Helicarrier on the projected footage crumbled, its wreckage falling into the Potomac. Then the second dissolved, and the third.

And out of the third dropped a Star-Spangled Man With A Plan.

The tiny red, white, and blue figure plummeted straight into the icy waters, disappearing from view. Tony caught his breath, waiting. One minute passed. Destruction filled the sky, flames and smoke like an evil rain. Two minutes. The new waves surged over cracked and burning shores. Three minutes. No body resurfaced.

The lights brightened, the image slowly fading, but Tony remained stolid, staring.

When he'd seen that, seen Captain America's death plastered all over the news boards, his heart had skipped several beats, vision greying.

That's when he'd realized just what the sometimes-annoying, always-overbearing, up-tight Puritan was to him.

A friend.

A quick call to Natasha, who had apparently been wrapped up in this mess, gave him the glorifying hope that Steve was, in fact, not dead.

So Tony, being, well, Tony, had reacted to this news by immediately locking himself up into his one safe haven, the one place where noise, and annoying music could drown out himself, overpower the blinding scream of his own thoughts. He'd even barred Pepper and Bruce from entrance, going so far as to cut off all communication, so intent was he on devoting himself to an effort of this never happening again.

Jarvis was speaking, dragging Tony out of his daze.

"Sir, Agent Romanoff is demanding admittance."

Tony blinked. Some hazy, habitual part of his mind remembered the first, and last time he'd refused to let Natasha go wherever she wanted, and promptly initiated the emergency "Give the Black Widow what she wants" protocol.

"Send her in, J." he said automatically.

The door behind him opened, and Tony started. Wait, send her in? Did he want her in?

All such thoughts were cut off by her voice.

"Bruce said I'd find you here."

Tony hurriedly brushed some soot from his eyes, and swiveled to face her. Of course it was soot. What else could it be.

Mata Hari raised her eyebrow. "Watching the footage again?" It wasn't a question.

Tony wondered when he'd stopped minding the fact that she was always in his business. Brushing his greasy forehead with an equally dirty hand, he pushed himself back toward the bench. "Yeah, um, I'm still offended that you had a party and you didn't invite me."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Because a guy flying in a shiny metal suit would have aided out covert mission how?"

Tony stood up, trembling. He drew a screen from the ceiling, his fingers rapidly flying across the translucent surface; then shoved it toward Romanoff.

It showed a single image, a frame of the video he had just watched. Tony leaned over, and expanded it, zooming in on the patriotic figure that hurtled to his death.

Tony stepped back.

Natasha stared at the picture a moment, and sighed. "You were on the list." she stated simply.

He raised an eyebrow. "List. As in, the invitation list?"

"Hydra's hit list." she looked to him, pulling some document up, and sending the screen to Tony. He gazed at it, his eyes running over the columned names. He saw his own, and then started to recognize more. Romanoff gestured to it.

"They were going to take out potential threats, a thousand lives besides." Her voice was cool, betraying no emotion. An unamused smile quirked her lips. "I guessed that the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. commemorated my last birthday on earth, so I took my own advice." She lightly sat on the edge of his bench, pushing her hair behind her ear.

Tony barked a short laugh, pushing the screen away, and reached for the object of the past seventy-two hours' unrelenting labor. He held it to her; and she took it, eying him curiously.

"Next time, 'whatever you want with whomever you want' better not just include you and Captain Lay-On-The-Wire." he said.

She held it dubiously up. "What is it?"

"Avenger's Panic Button." he laconically answered, falling back in his chair. Exhaustion was slowly creeping up on him, despite his best efforts. "You press it, it's linked to the other Avengers' electronic devices, they come help. The signal is guarded, completely untraceable, and instantaneous, so you can send it without blowing a cover, but we will still arrive in time to save you."

Romanoff was nodding, and Tony allowed himself to sink deeper into his chair. Then she turned to him, and—oh, no. She looked concerned. When an assassin is concerned for you, you're in deep trouble.

"Tony, it's not your fault."

Tony swallowed. Great. She knew. She guessed the sudden, urgent need for this device. His face worked, and he stood.

"Yes, it _is_." he hissed. "It's my fault. I should have been there, but I wasn't, and now Capsicle's sorry carcase is lying in a hospital." he paused, and tried to stop himself, but the words spilled from his weary, aching mind. "I would have cut the wire."

Natasha eyed him. "Steve doesn't blame you."

Tony laughed tiredly, wilting back into his seat. "Maybe not, but he'd probably not blame me even if I was the one who beat his stupid self." He buried his face in his hands.

He felt a soft touch on his shoulder, a gentle, soothing massage. "Panic Button, hm?" Mirth lurked in her tone. "You know what Steve will call it."

Tony abruptly raised his head. "No! It is 'Panic Button', not, 'Avengers' Emergency Contacting Device.'"

He didn't really mind, though. Steve could call it whatever he pleased, provided he used it next time. Because of course there would be a next time. They were, after all, Earth's Mightiest Heroes.

 _ **Twenty-four hours before the Alien invasion of New York**_

Phil Coulson double-checked the address on the piece of grubby paper he held against the steering wheel of his unmarked black van. He then glanced up at the darkened building he had inauspiciously parked beside. With a sigh, he slipped his sunglasses on, and exited the vehicle into the deserted street, one of many in intercity New York. He crossed over the filthy street, and opened the door of the storied apartment.

Obnoxious music assaulted his tense ears, and he wondered anew why Taryn had ever chosen this place for a home, however temporary it might be. Ok, _technically_ he knew. All that about this being her cover for 'busting' the illegal arms dealing ring. But that made the place no less unsavory.

Phil walked sedately down the hall, scanning door numbers and ignoring the slight consternation a suit-clad man caused in this obviously crime-ridden locale. Locating the correct room, he, imperceptibly picking the lock prior, opened the door, and entered, carefully securing it behind him. His eyes scanned the musty, bare-save for a lone bed, dresser, and rickety wooden chair—interior, the unobtrusive device in his hand doing the same. When both visual and reliable readings came off clean, Phil moved over to the chair. Gingerly dusting it off with the edge of his suit jacket sleeve, he sat down to wait.

He had not long. Soon, footsteps approached the door, a hand fumbled at the knob, the door opened, and Taryn backed in, her arms laden and a pencil in her mouth. She turned around, and her eyes widened, the pencil falling from her lax jaw.

Phil grinned. He couldn't help it. "Don't you ever knock?"

"The door was open." Taryn recollected herself and came further in, the door, seemingly of its own accord, closing behind her. She deposited her burden about the room, then turned, straightening.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. pulling me out?"

Phil nodded." We had a situation. The Tesseract's been stolen."

A mask fell over her features. "Barton?"

"Compromised." Phil whispered.

Taryn nodded, mechanically reaching into her pocket and drawing forth a slip of paper.

"I just collected the last of the names." she handed it to Phil. "Who took the cube?"

Phil ran his eyes down the list. "Extra-terrestrial invader. The Tesseract opened a portal at the base. Claims to be Loki of Asgard." he said. Then an aside- "Good work, though we'll probably need to put this little operation on hold."

"You're utilizing the Avengers Initiative?"

Phil looked up, meeting her cool gaze. "Yes."

"Are you supposed to be here?"

Phil shifted. "Officially, I'm recruiting Stark. I'm not here at all."

Taryn turned to him. "You know, the director is right. I am a liability, and I would not be of use."

Phil rolled his eyes. "Whatever the director says, you would be the most valuable asset to the Initiative."

Taryn arched an eyebrow. "Even more than Captain America?" her tone was teasing, and Phil's heart fell. She was dismissing the topic, she wouldn't come.

"Even if he signed the trading cards." Phil said sincerely.

Taryn smiled. "All the luck in the world when you tackle Stark."

Phil nodded, accepting her well-wishes, and turned to go. He paused inside the door, swiveling about to face her.

"Please." he said softly. "It's a Level Seven." He smiled, and left.

 _A/N: Feel free to drop a review! I love feedback!_


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